Kushiel's Justice (4 page)

They had not known of Yeshua ben Yosef, whom their brethren elsewhere had acknowledged as the
mashiach
, their savior, after he was slain by the Tiberians.

And of a surety, they had not known of Blessed Elua, who was conceived in Earth’s womb, engendered by the mingled blood and tears of Yeshua and Mary of Magdala, who loved him. Earth-begotten Elua, claimed by no god, who made Terre d’Ange his home.

At the time, I’d been too young—and too haunted—to imagine what it must have been like to have all of one’s beliefs turned upside down, to learn one’s people had moved on to hold new truths, new beliefs. To find that the world was so different. But since then, I’d stood atop a building in flooded Lucca and watched Gallus Tadius open a portal onto the underworld and send the floodwaters straight to hell, just as he’d promised.

It must, I imagined, have felt somewhat the same.

“What now?” I asked Morit. “Will your people become Yeshuites, do you think?”

“Or D’Angelines?” She looked thoughtful. “No. I do not think so. But perhaps some Yeshuites will become Habiru again.” I wanted to speak more with her, but the call to dine came and she was seated too far away to allow for conversation. “We will speak later,” Morit promised. “Lady Phèdre has been very gracious.”

I had been given a place of honor next to Sidonie, who sat at her mother’s right hand.

“Cousin Imriel,” she said in her cool, measured tone. “We’re so pleased to have you here with us tonight.”

I kissed her proffered cheek. “Are you indeed?”

“Of course.” A faint smile curved her lips. Unlike Alais, Sidonie resembled the Queen. The same fair skin, the same fine-cut features. There was a time she had feared me, and there was a time I had found her unbearable. And then there had come a hunting accident, and I’d flung myself atop her in the woods, thinking to protect her. The danger turned out to be imagined, but in the space of a few heartbeats, everything had changed. Now the danger lay between the two of us.

There was desultory small talk at the table while course after course was served: veal tarts, suckling pig, stewed cabbage and quinces, and more. I applied myself to my food and ate with a good will, conscious of Sidonie’s amused gaze.

“Did they not feed you in Tiberium?” she asked.

“In Tiberium, yes.” I wiped my mouth with a linen serviette. “In Lucca, no.”

“Tell us about Lucca, Imriel.” There was a conciliatory note in Bertran de Trevalion’s voice. “We’re all eager to hear about your heroics.”

I gave him a long look. “I survived a siege, that’s all. There were no heroics.”

Across the table, Alais said, “But what about when you cut off—”

“My lord Bertran.” Sidonie’s clear voice carried over her sister’s. She glanced at her mother, who made a gesture of acquiescence. “My lords and ladies, fear not that you will lack for tales of heroism this evening. In honor of our cousin’s safe return, and in honor of our admired Sabaean guest, Gilles Lamiz has composed a new tale, a familiar one from an unfamiliar perspective.”

The Queen’s Poet entered the hall to a round of applause and bowed deeply. “I am indebted to the Lady Morit for this tale,” he said, then began.

“My thanks,” I whispered to Sidonie.

She nodded without looking at me.

Gilles Lamiz told the story of how Phèdre and Joscelin and I had gone to Saba, seeking the Name of God. Only this time, he told it from the perspective of the Sabaean women; how they had marveled at the news we brought, how they had debated whether or not our appearance among them was an omen. How they had decided among themselves to aid us, and Morit had taught us to read the stars and chart a course across the Lake of Tears to find the hidden temple.

I rubbed my palms, remembering the blisters. We had rowed for hours that night, hours and hours. Mostly Joscelin, but Phèdre and I had taken turns, too.

He didn’t tell the part about the temple and what had transpired there. No one truly knew except Phèdre and the tongueless priest who tended it. But he told of our return, and how the light had shown from her face and the Sabaeans had known that the Covenant of Wisdom was restored.

“Thus did the words of Moishe bear fruit, a fruit at once wondrous and bitter, for we were restored in the world, though a stranger led the way; and yet did he not bid us to aid the stranger among us? For we were strangers ourselves in the land of the Pharaohs, and their hearts are known to us,” he concluded.

The applause that followed was thoughtful, and I was glad to hear it. D’Angelines are a proud folk, but we can be insular. It was brought home to me in Caerdicca Unitas that we think too seldom about our role in the broader world.

That has changed under Ysandre’s rule, but change comes slow. There are still those who look askance at Sidonie and mutter about a Pictish half-breed heir.

I stole a glance at her, thinking about the unfettered laughter she had loosed in the woods. It was the only time, I think, I had truly heard her laugh. Brittle, Mavros said. I didn’t believe it.

She raised her brows slightly. They were a burnished gold, almost bronze; darker than her hair. The same shape as mine, the same shape I’d seen in my father’s portrait. Cruithne eyes, Pictish eyes, black and unreadable. I could read most people’s eyes. But my sixteen-year-old cousin had been raised from birth to inherit a nation and keep her thoughts to herself, and I could not read hers.

“Did you like it?” she asked.

“Very much,” I said.

Her smile came and went. Dark currents, stirring. “I’m glad.”

Ysandre ended the dinner with a pretty speech welcoming me home and reaffirming her gratitude for my decision to wed Dorelei mab Breidaia and ensure a peaceable succession in matrilineal Alba. I made a little speech of thanks, which Phèdre had insisted I prepare. And then cordial was served and we were given leave to depart or mingle, according to our pleasure.

We stayed, of course. I was the guest of honor and it would have been an insult to leave before the Queen did, and she was still conversing. Morit left, and the members of House Trevalion, too; as early as protocol would allow. For that, I was grateful.

Alais and Sidonie left. I watched them go, Sidonie holding her younger sister’s hand. Her lady-in-waiting went with them.

“Ye gods!” Mavros flung himself down on the couch beside me. “My bollocks ache. I’d like to get that priestess’ daughter alone in a room for a few hours.”

“You waste your time, my friend,” Julien Trente advised him, leaning against the couch. “She’s loyal to the Dauphine.”

Mavros gave him a slow, smoldering look. “Well, I’d not mind trying.” He slapped my knee. “Come, Imri! Let’s take ourselves off to the Night Court and ease our aches with Naamah’s sweet succor.” He gauged my expression. “Not Valerian House, no fear. I’ve somewhat lighter in mind.”

“You go.” I nodded at Ysandre. “I’m honor-bound.”

“What of you, young lord Trente?” Mavros cocked a brow at him.

Julien blushed. “I’m game.”

“Good.” Mavros swung himself upright. He gazed down at me with an odd mixture of predatory affection and concern. “Next time, mayhap?”

Come spring, my bride would arrive. Come summer, I’d be wed. And come fall, I’d depart Terre d’Ange for Alba, a country still wild and half civilized. I didn’t fear it. Already, I’d travelled farther in my life; much farther. But I was D’Angeline, and the blood of Blessed Elua and Kushiel ran in my veins. However damaged I might be, even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight. And in Terre d’Ange, that meant love in all its forms.

Whatever lay between Sidonie and me, it was not to be. It was a foolish infatuation, the lure of the forbidden. Nothing more.

And I wanted more.

So much more.

“Next time,” I promised. I stretched out my hands, warming them at the hearth. I thought about Claudia Fulvia, who had driven me half mad with desire in Tiberium. I thought about her brother, too; Lucius, who had kissed me on the eve of battle. And I thought about Emmeline nó Balm who had been my first, and all the girls and women I’d known, and Jeanne de Mereliot, who had welcomed me home with love and healing. “All of them,” I said recklessly. “All the Houses of the Night Court. I want to visit them all ere I’m wed.”

Mavros grinned. “
All
of them?”

“Well.” With the weals of my visit to Kushiel’s temple still healing, I amended my boast. “All save one.”

F
OUR

I
N THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED
, the good news was that Bernadette de Trevalion made an unexpected decision to return to Azzalle for the winter, taking her son Bertran with her. I didn’t blame her, though I wondered what she told Bertran and Ghislain. Once they had gone, it seemed easer to breathe at the Palace.

The bad news was that I spent less time than I might have wished in the Houses of the Night Court, and a good deal more immersed in foreign cultures.

One, of course, was Alba’s.

The matter of succession in Alba had been a point of contention for as long as I could remember. Now, at last, it was settled in a manner pleasing to everyone. In accordance with matrilineal tradition, Drustan mab Necthana had named his nephew Talorcan his heir. I was to wed Dorelei, Talorcan’s sister, and our children in turn would be named Talorcan’s heirs.

And Alais had consented to wed Talorcan to satisfy the demands of concerned peers that Terre d’Ange might wield influence in Alba in every generation. Although she would not rule nor her children inherit, one day she would be a Cruarch’s wife.

Since the agreement was made, Alais had been appointed a Cruithne tutor that she might learn more about the country, and we agreed that I would benefit from taking part in her lessons.

The tutor’s name was Firdha, and although she was small, she was imposing. When I first encountered her, she cut a fierce and upright figure, standing in the center of the well-lit study that had once served as the royal nursery. Her iron-grey hair was as thick and coarse as a mare’s tail, caught at the nape of her neck by an elaborate pin, and her eyes were like polished black stones. In one hand, she held a golden staff in the likeness of an oak branch.

Behind her back, Alais mouthed the word “bow” at me.

“
Bannaght
, my lady,” I said, bowing deeply.

Her black eyes flashed. “Daughter of the Grove.”

I straightened. “Your pardon, my lady?”

“Firdha is an
ollamh
,” Alais informed me. “A bard of the highest rank. That’s the proper greeting. Even my father uses it,” she added. “An
ollamh
is the king’s equal.”

“And my superior, I take it?” I asked. There was the faintest glint of amusement in the bard’s eyes. I bowed a second time. “
Bannaght
, Daughter of the Grove.”

Firdha inclined her head. “Greetings, Prince.”

So my studies began. There were no books, no scrolls. Alba had no written tradition. Everything worth knowing was committed to memory. Firdha had studied for twelve years to gain her rank, and she knew hundreds upon hundreds of tales—a vast history of Alba and Eire, encompassing all manner of lore and law.

The islands were a strange place. Once, I daresay, our people wouldn’t have found them so. We share a distant ancestry in common, or at least some of our people do. There were dozens of tribes in Alba, but they reckoned themselves divided roughly into four folks: The Tarbh Cró, or people of the Red Bull; the Fhalair Bàn, the White Horse of Eire; the Eidlach Òr, or Golden Hind of the south; and the Cullach Gorrym, or Black Boar.

Those were the true Cruithne—Drustan’s folk, and Firdha’s, too. Earth’s oldest children, they called themselves. They had borrowed many customs from the others, but they had held the islands first.

“Many thousands of years ago, we followed the Black Boar to the west,” Firdha said with a certain satisfaction. “Long before you D’Angelines learned to count time on your fingers, the Cullach Gorrym were in Alba. The Tarbh Cró, the Fhalair Bàn, the Eidlach Òr; they all came later.”

Mayhap it was true, but then had come the Master of the Straits and his curse. For almost a thousand years, there was little exchange between the islands and the mainland. Alba and Eire were sealed, and they had grown strange to us. The curse is broken now. It is a lengthy tale, but Phèdre broke it for all time with the Name of God she found in distant Saba. There is still a Master of the Straits—Hyacinthe, who was her childhood friend—but the Straits themselves are open, and he is an ally.

“What of the others?” Alais asked. “Did they come later, too?”

“Others?” The bard’s creased eyelids flickered.

“Somewhat I heard my father say once.” Alais frowned. “The Mag . . . Maghuin—”

“Hush.” Firdha raised one hand. “The folk of Alba are divided into four,” she said, repeating her lesson. “And the Cullach Gorrym are eldest among them.”

There followed a lengthy tale of how Lug the warrior led his people to follow the mighty Black Boar, and the boar swam the Straits, and the hump of his back was like an island moving toward the setting sun, and Lug and his people built hide boats and covered them with black tar, and followed. And then more, about how Lug stood upon the shore and cast his spear, and where his spear struck, a spring of sweet water bubbled from the earth to form a river, and there Bryn Gorrydum was founded.

It was a fine tale and one of many such as I would hear over the course of the following months, filled with ancient heroes, magical beasts, and sacred springs. I listened to it with pleasure, but with a nagging curiosity at the back of my thoughts, too.

“So who are these
others
?” I asked Alais afterward, when Firdha had departed. “And why didn’t she want to speak of them?”

“I don’t know.” Alais leaned down to scratch Celeste’s ears. The wolfhound was lounging at her feet, content to doze in a patch of sunlight. “I remember the name, though. It was Maghuin Dhonn, Brown Bear. That’s why I thought mayhap he was talking about a different people, and not just another tribe among the Four Folk.”

“What did he say say?”

Alais shook her head. “I couldn’t hear, really. He was talking to Talorcan and they were being quiet. When he saw me, they talked of somewhat else.” She regarded Celeste, who thumped her tail obligingly. “There’s unrest in Alba, you know.”

“Still?” I asked lightly. “I thought I’d settled all that.”

There was a touch of amused pity in Alais’ smile. “Not all of it.”

“So tell me.”

She shrugged. “Talorcan says it’s only old clan feuds and that there’s always fighting of that sort in Alba. But Dorelei says there are some who feel Father is too beholden to Terre d’Ange.”

“Funny,” I said wryly. “That sounds familiar.”

“I know.” She smiled again, but sadly this time. “Are other countries truly so different, Imri?”

“Yes,” I said. “But people aren’t.” I kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Alais. They’ll love
you
.”

“I hope so,” she said softly. “I had a bad dream about a bear, once.”

“A true dream?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “A nightmare.”

“We’ll protect you,” I said. “Won’t we, Celeste?” The wolfhound lifted her head, brown eyes clear in the slanting sunlight. Her tail thumped again, stirring gleaming motes of dust.

“I hope so,” Alais repeated.

The time I spent among the Sabaeans and the Yeshuites was more pleasurable. Phèdre had indeed been a gracious hostess, opening her house for a series of salons where they might meet and converse.

There were not as many Yeshuites in the City of Elua as there once were. Their numbers have dwindled during my lifetime as hundreds, then thousands, set forth toward the distant northeast in accordance with a prophecy. Far north, farther even than the farthest reaches of Skaldia. It was the one thing above all others that perplexed the Sabaeans.

“North!” Morit exclaimed. “If this Yeshua was the
mashiach
, why would he send the Children of Yisra-el
north
? Did Moishe toil for forty years in the desert to win our people a berth of snow and ice? I do not believe it.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement from the Sabaeans. It was strange to see Phèdre’s household filled with so many somber scholars all at once, when she was wont to entertain more colorful gatherings. It pleased her, though. In deference to their ways, she wore an unadorned gown of brown velvet with a modest neckline, her hair caught in a plain black caul. She still shone, though. I do not believe Phèdre could look drab if she tried.

“I did not say I believe it.” Seated cross-legged on the floor, Eleazar ben Enokh spread his hands. His thin face was lively with interest. “There are passages in the Brit Khadasha that suggest it, and there are passages that suggest otherwise.”

“Bar Kochba,” another of the Yeshuites murmured. “ ‘And he shall carve out the way before you, and his blades shall shine like a star in his hands.’ ”

Phèdre and Joscelin exchanged a glance. He touched the hilts of his twin daggers. There was a story there about young Yeshuites he’d taught to fight in the Cassiline manner. Ti-Philippe told me once. He knew, he’d been there.

“But why
north
?” Morit asked in frustration.

“Yeshua spoke of making a place in cold lands to await his return,” Eleazar said to her. “For my part, I believe he spoke in parable, and the place of which he spoke is the wastelands of the human heart. It is there that we must await him.”

“You believe he was the
mashiach
?” one of the Sabaean men challenged him.

Eleazar was quiet a moment. He was a mystic, and Phèdre had befriended him many years ago in her long quest to break the curse that bound the Master of the Straits. He had heard the Name of God when she spoke it. “I do,” he said slowly. “For I have found beauty and goodness in his words, and the promise of salvation. And yet I believe there is much that is hidden to us. What is it, this thing we call
salvation
? Who are we to discern the will of Adonai?”

“So.” Morit smiled. “We are not so different, perhaps.”

“No.” He smiled back at her. “Not so different.”

It was true, what I’d said to Alais.

True, and not true.

They debated this and many things. I liked listening to them. It was much like the conversations we had in Tiberium under Master Piero’s guidance, seeking to define the nature of salvation, of goodness, of justice. Only they spoke in Habiru, not Caerdicci, and I stayed quiet and listened as best I could.

“What of this
Elua
?” one of the Sabaeans inquired. “You are silent, Lady Phèdre, and yet you alone among us have come closest to touching the mind of Adonai. Do you believe Elua, then, was the
mashiach
? Why do you not speak?”

“It is too big for words,” Phèdre said simply. “Ask your own untongued priests, for I can speak of it no more than they can.”

Some of them were put out by her refusal, but Eleazar nodded. “You were given a gift,” he said. “Gifts do not always come with understanding; or not one to which we may give voice. Is it not so?”

“My thanks,” she said. “Yes.”

“I’ll say it, then.” Unexpectedly Joscelin lifted his head. His fair hair gleamed in the lamplight. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I believe it. I do not claim it is true for all folk, but for me, at least, Blessed Elua is the
mashiach
.”

It surprised me a little, and yet it did not. Alone among Elua’s Companions, Cassiel followed Blessed Elua out of a belief that the One God had been wrong to turn his back on his misbegotten son. The Yeshuites called Cassiel the Apostate. They believe he will relent one day and return to the One God’s throne, and Elua and his Companions will follow. The Cassiline Brothers believe it, too. But Joscelin had passed through damnation and beyond, and he believed otherwise.

I did, too.

We spoke of it after our guests had left, after a fashion. There was somewhat I’d heard that I’d never asked him about, and I was curious.

“Is it true you nearly converted to Yeshuism?” I asked him.

“Where did you hear that?” Joscelin eyed me.

“Gilot,” I said. It was true, although I knew he’d gotten it from Ti-Philippe.

“I thought about it,” Joscelin said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why?”

He got up to prod the fire, squatting with effortless grace. His unbound hair curtained his face momentarily. I knew it hid the place on the upper curve of his right ear where a chunk of flesh was missing, taken out by a bandit’s arrow by the Great Falls above Saba. “Salvation,” he murmured. “What, indeed, does it mean? At the time, I thought I knew. I thought myself in need of it, and the Yeshuites offered it. And all it cost was faith.”

“But you didn’t,” I said.

Joscelin shook his head. “No,” he said. “In the end, the cost was too high. I was unwilling to lay love on the altar of faith. Instead, I found my faith in love.”

We would have spoken further, but there was a commotion at the door. I thought it was one of our guests returning, but it proved to be Mavros calling on me.

“Name of Elua!” He laughed. “I saw your guests leaving. What a dour lot!” He bowed graciously to Joscelin, which he didn’t have to do. “Messire Cassiline.”

“Lord Shahrizai.” Joscelin inclined his head. He tolerated Mavros, but he had little fondness for any member of House Shahrizai.

“My lady.” Mavros’ expression changed, and I knew Phèdre had returned.

“Hello, Mavros.” She gave him the kiss of greeting with serene composure. A little shiver ran through him as he returned it; I could see the myriad braids of his hair quiver. I could have punched him for it, even though I knew what he was feeling.

“Ah, well.” He cleared his throat. “You did promise to come with me, Imri. And I’ve got both the Trentes in tow, and a fair escort to keep us safe.”

My face felt hot. “Where are you bound?”

“Alyssum House.” There was a wicked challenge in Mavros’ eyes. “I thought we’d follow the alphabet. Do you have a better idea?”

There were Thirteen Houses in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, known more familiarly as the Night Court. Each of them catered to a different taste. The patrons of Alyssum House fed their fancies on illusions of modesty. It might not have seemed a titillating notion elsewhere, but D’Angelines were not known for their modesty, and that which is rare is always prized.

I glanced involuntarily at Phèdre.

“Go.” She sounded amused. “You’ll come to no harm at Alyssum. Go, with my blessing.”

I wasted no time in obeying.